Pop Songs For Us Rejects
by let.me.cry
Summary: Throughout our lives we all play different tunes, but in highschool they tend to get a bit messed up, missing notes becomes a part of every day, and when tears fall down our instruments break apart. AU. Shounen Ai.
1. A Little Less Sixteen Candles

**Notes: **Hi everyone :) It's Morgan, and I've adopted Future's fanfic, Pop Songs for Us Rejects! I do not own chapters one through three, that was her work, and from there on is mine. Please do not accuse me of plagiarism because I will laugh. I have been given permission. Just as well, I quickly beta'd each chapter, because I'm a whore about spelling and grammar mistakes.

I do not own the song Pop Songs for Us Rejects by Silverchair, Fallout Boy, Switchfoot, or Naruto.

**Pop Songs For Us Rejects**

**Chapter 1: A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More "Touch Me".**

_I've been thinkin', maybe I've been partly cloudy  
Maybe I'm the chance of rain  
And maybe I'm overcast and maybe  
All my luck's washed down the drain_

(Stars – Switchfoot)

Kiba's POV:

The base vibrates through the floor and I know I have the music on too loud; I'll probably get those beeping noises in my ears if I don't turn it down. But I love to have it this way, the pulse through my body and the way it paints pictures of my dreams. I close my eyes and the white stained ceiling stops taunting me, now I can be where the hell or who the hell I want. I'm no longer some white trash suburban kid with fucked up parents and no money in my pockets. I'm cool with a million friends and a flashy car, chicks dig me and my guitar isn't broken anymore. I've got groovy speakers and a sound-system to die for, everyone wants to be me and I don't want to be them.

I'm so far away into my sunglass covered daydreams I don't notice the violent knocks on my door, instead I get scared shitless when the door bursts open revealing my once so beautiful mother. Now brought down by the harshness everyday life and too many cigarettes. She looks tired with dark bangs underneath her eyes and unwashed hair hanging in stripes around her shoulders. I'm ashamed to say it, but it looks like she hasn't showered in a week or so. It might have to do with our hot water getting turned off because we didn't pay the bill, but even so I force myself into the water, cold or not. I may be low-life but I don't want to show it, I still got some pride left in my body. I guess this rundown trailer ain't much to be proud of, neither is my mother and her non existent work, my dad's an ass, my sister's living down the street in a similar trailer, and my grades suck, so honestly there's nothing. But one has to cling to the small things, or else I'd given up a long time ago. Mom tells me I've got beautiful eyes though, that I could make anyone fall with them. Haven't succeeded with that yet but it must count for something, right? But then again, she only says that when she's a little tipsy, so there's probably not much truth in those words.

This is a daily ritual for us, mom comes into my room and tries to act motherly, she wants to talk about my day, ask about how I'm doing, how my friends are, and if I got a girl yet. Which friends, and what girl I ask inwardly but grin on the outside. I'm all smiles and tell her lies, not big ones, simple twists of reality. She doesn't need to know that there doesn't exist beach-parties and girlfriends. She still lives in her little fantasy world, where the trailer is a real house, where dad will come home at four and she'll have the dinner ready, her kids are still good at school and we all live wonderful lives. Too bad it isn't like that…

But, hey there's more to life then that, at least that's what I try and convince myself. Shrugging of my mother's feeble attempts of striking up a conversation I walk out the door. I've got too much nervous energy to stay inside, I got to do something or I'll go crazy. Mom waves after me, but I don't bother with waving back. She was more than annoying today. I think she's getting lovesick, dad's been gone for a month now, probably touring around, drinking like there's no tomorrow and forgetting about us at home. I don't mind, I don't like him; he's an asshole always leaving us behind like that. He must be retarded not realizing we need support here at home. That money can't be picked off the trees, that my jeans has been ripped for a month now and I desperately need a new pair, but there's no fucking money for that. I know clothes aren't the most important things in the world, but it still sucks not being able to buy a new shirt once in a while. My hoodie's nearly thread thin and doesn't warm at all anymore but it's all I got so I pull it tighter around myself as I walk up the street towards Shika's place.

Together with him I can kill some time and discuss the outcome of tomorrow, it's our first day in the newly built high school. Some dude who rules the city, I can never remember his name, decided that instead of two high schools there should only be one. Therefore he rebuilt our old one to fit all students in town and tomorrow's the big day. Our time to be heroes as I told Shika yesterday when I rambled about how I wanted to be cool this time, that this school could be the chance we needed, the one I've been waiting for. He just nodded at me and continued playing his play station, ignoring my ramblings with style. Shika's the most laidback kid I know, he manages to take everything so god damn cool. Does he bother with being un-popular? No. Does he care he's out of style? No.

Secretly Shika is one of my heroes, I wish I could be so un-bothered with everything too, and I really don't know what I'd do with out him. We've been friends forever. The most unlikely couple ever, Kiba that's me, the bouncing hyperactive bundle of energy and him Shikamaru, a lazy ass who sleep through all classes. Of course we got labeled something strange, it would have been against nature if not. It's no that I get pushed around or so, it's more the ignorance from the popular kids that bothers me. Luckily as said it doesn't bother Shika, or else we would have been the biggest losers ever. He always saves my ass in the last second when I'm about to make a gigantic fool out of myself. I owe him big time for all those times, and I have no clue about how to make it up to him.

Shika's house is old, and really big. The paint is chipping, everything looks askew, and there's a gigantic peace sign spray painted on the front door, but god damn it, it's a real house, not a fucking trailer and I adore it. It has like a million rooms, creepy corridors and secret pass ways. The windows are in odd shapes and every doorframe is painted in different colors, blue, purple, yellow, green you name it. Shika's so used to it, I don't even think he noticed the people staring at it, or walking up knocking the door, simply to see what kind of weird people live in such a house.

Sometimes, when I'm over there, I walk around exploring for hours. When we were small hide and seek was the ultimate game, we played it all day, usually until Shika fell asleep somewhere and wouldn't come out when I called him. Then I walked home again, feeling lonely to my own messy place. Not to say Shika's place is extremely clean, there are things everywhere but in that cozy way that fits old houses, not in the dirty fashion that rules my place.

I walk straight in; his parents are used to me coming 'round all the time and they don't mind. They're survivors from the 60s hippie era and true believers of the free spirit, for example they never lock the door behind them. His dad still keeps his hair long, holding it back with a tie dyed band and his mother has this flashy flower printed wide dresses. With parents like that it's a wonder Shika didn't turn out weirder then what he is. There's music blaring from one of the living rooms and I recognize it as one of the live samples from a Woodstock concert. I can't count how many times Shika's dad made us listen to it, pointing out the awesome guitar parts and so on. Basically we know every song by heart. It isn't really my type music or Shika's music style, but what doesn't one do to keep parents happy? I slant in there, stopping in the doorframe and leaning against it, putting my hands down my front pockets, trying to strike a cool guy pose. Shika looks up and greets me over the book he's reading and his dad gives me the biggest smile ever and starts playing air guitar along with the rhythm of the music, motioning for me to do the same. For a brief second I contemplate if his been smoking grass again, but then again no. Shika told me he stopped, and I think I remember being told a million times before that this is his favorite song. –"Dad, please…" Shika yawns and rises himself from his place sprawled out on the floor. Shikaku, that's his dad stops playing but instead he starts singing, closing his eyes and giving himself away totally. His voice's raspy and somebody would have to beat me to get me to admit it out loud, cool. Obviously that's the last drop for Shika who rushes from his place leaving his book on the carpet; on his way out he grabs my hand and drags me upstairs to the attic where he has his room. Rushing up the stairs in a pace that's un-normally fast for Shika I notice some new pictures being put up on the walls. Last years school photo of Shika for example, the one I know he secretly hates. The photographer somehow got him to smile on it; Shika's not the one that's keen on smiling. He laughs when something's fun, he grins sometimes, he smirks most often, but the smiles are more random, I guess with risk for sounding girly, they're special. A tug at my arms makes me speed up and soon we tumble inside his room and Shika kicks the door shut behind him. A few seconds pass and I notice Shika's still holding on to my hand, -"Uhm" I say, shaking my hand a little and smiling –"I'm not going anywhere, you know…" I trail off, amused to see a small blush creep over his cheeks. –"Oh, sorry" he replies and lets go, and I'm surprised he sounds so startled. What's this, Shika jumpy? Maybe he's nervous about tomorrow too, and what's up with running from his dad like that? It's the first time in an eternity I've seen Shika show temper, normally he goes along with everything, his dad singing, playing, forcing us to do things. I remember when we first started school, back when I still lived in a real house. The first day of school Shika came with his long hair flowing free down his back and a t-shirt that more resembled a dress then anything else, his khaki shorts barely peaked behind the edge of it. Some kid tried to poke fun at him because of that attire, and there's when I came in the picture. I was fascinated by the strange boy and his odd apparel so much unlike my own, and I didn't like the kid bullying him. So I literally beat the shit out of him, and helped Shika back on his feet, and that's when we became best friends. The point being, his parents made him dress like that, he had no clue about what the outside world was like. So the whole school thing was really new to him, luckily the bastard's smart, if he just paid a tad bit of attention on the lessons his grades would skyrocket.

Shika has cut his hair since then, and changed most of his clothes. But it was years before he did that, years of verbal and psychical abuse in school. And truth to tell I don't really think he went unaffected through all those years of bullying. It's kind of weird now, how our tables have turned. I used to be the one defending him, but now it's the other way around. I think the kids got tired of picking on Shika, since he barely ever cried or bothered with them, and then we turned twelve and other things then whose parents are weird got interesting. That's when Shika and I started walking the nerd path through school; it's an easy way of avoiding conflicts and to hide away from attention. There's few at school that actually knows I live in a trailer, most of them still thinks I live in that nice house down on Orange Road. I miss that house badly, but dad took it away with his constant gambling on the road and mom started drinking. My sister got knocked up at fifteen and moved in with her boyfriend and that left me alone at the age of thirteen. For a few months I almost lived at Shika's, avoiding my new "home" as much as possible. Shame can burn, oh so badly.

Said lazy teenager breaks my circle of thoughts by slumping down on his king sized bed, and for not being that big he takes up an awful lot of place. I wonder where I'm going to fit in. Tossing himself on the bed like that, he made his shirt ride high practically exposing more of his stomach then what I have seen all summer. Tearing my eyes from him, what the hell am I doing ogling him up and down either way, I make my way over to the CD player, curious about what star watching music there's playing this time. Yeah, the kid's psycho. He actually stays up late to sit in his window and look at the stars. When I asked him about it back in the days, he mumbled something about 'that's the only time when it's calm'. There's a lot more to Shika then what he lets know, and sometimes I think I've only seen the half of him. I've watched the night skies together with him a few times, but I've always managed to fall asleep or get bored in the middle of it and wander of doing something else. Standing there in front of his wooden bookshelf with all his CDs and books I suddenly wonder if he's disappointed with me for not understanding his affection with the space, for not being able to share that with him. When I turn around to ask him about it, I notice he already has his nose in another book so I leave him be. Instead I force my attention back to the stereo and press play, immediately the music surrounds us, but not in my usual ear deafening volume, instead it's soft, typical background music. Shika barely ever listens to anything loud, and when he does you know something's wrong. It's too much to call Shika's sound system groovy, but it's awesome all right. There's speakers placed all around the room, so when you stand in the middle you're completely surrounded by sounds.

-"Oh, _Switchfoot_?.. how come?" I ask when I finally recognize the tune playing. I think the song is called _Stars_ or something; it fits pretty good you know, for star watching… see _Stars_, and star watching that kind of thing. God, sometimes I'm so stupid it almost hurts. Shika just spares me a glance from over neat his book, he's probably thinking the same thing as I am, what a retard´. –"Sweetheart, stop being so bitchy" I say laughing and tackle him in the bed, trying to engage him in something else then reading, something like worrying about our future at this new high school, and I kind of wanted to ask if I could borrow a shirt of him. Mine are all so old and worn, they practically looks like rags. I'm exaggerating a little, but I think Shika knows how ashamed I am over always looking second-hand. Not saying I want to follow the latest trends, but the purple t-shirt with bananas on I'm wearing right now, it can't even be concerned as grungy cool, it's just ridiculous. But it was the only clean one left; I have to remember to do some laundry when I get home if I don't get that shirt from Shika. If I do get it, laundry can wait. It's not that fun to make the washing machine work, besides it'll be no wonder if we're out of washing powder.

But whatever, my clothes are still not improving my image. This year I want someone else than Shika, and a few other shallow friends to like me. Someone like, eh, a girl… yeah a girl, or well simply someone, romantically, kisses and stuff. I start blabbering about all this with Shika, accidentally slipping in if I could borrow his red t-shirt tomorrow. As usually he listens more then he talks but I'm content with that, it's enough that he stays my friend through the good times and the bad. And besides it's a nice thing he doesn't talk as much as me, if he did we'd fight all the time over who's turn it is to speak.

The CD goes on repeat as the afternoon passes by. Of Shika's odd behavior earlier there's not a trace, nothing but the slight flinch when I called him sweetheart. After a while I start walking around the room, moving over to where his drums are, noticing the thick layer of dust on them. –"Forgot to clean this?" I ask, not really asking about his cleaning skills, more wondering if he gave up drumming without telling me. We used to talk about starting a band, back when my guitar still worked that is. –"Nope, they're resting" he replies, barely even looking at the drums. His double meanings are always a lot harder to understand _than_ what mine is. What exactly did he mean with that? It most probably was some hint for me, to fix my own instrument up. I know Shika loves music too, usually that's one of the few things he isn't lazy about.

–"Hey Shika, I was thinking" I say, sitting down again beside him on the bed. Something in my voice makes him put the book down for real and glance up at me with a worried look in his face, he knows I want something more then just borrowing a shirt this time. –"You know…" I continue, looking down, avoiding his eyes and tracing circles on his plaid blanket, -"we're almost sixteen now, and, um…" I get quiet. Damn it's hard to get the words out. I've been thinking about this for a while, so it shouldn't be hard, usually I'm too straight forward and blurt everything out directly, act before I think so to say. But this has been circling my mind for a month now, and I've finally decided I need to ask, or else I won't get any sleep. –"What Kiba?" he asks, his voice indifferent, but I know he's curious since he asked, normally he'd wait for me to continue, even it would mean waiting forever. I breathe in, it's now or never, hell if he says no, we could laugh about it later. –"Yeah, well, I know for fact you haven't kissed anyone yet, and see, eh, neither have I, and that's kind of embarrassing…", I trail of and by now Shika's staring wide eyed at me, looking more than afraid and I continue –"So, I figured we need to practice. The girls won't think it's cool if we don't know how to kiss, you know…" I grin and await his reaction. –" So… by that you mean?" he says, his voice insecure and his eyes flickering between the two of us. Hell, Shika, you're open-minded, you should know where I'm going with this, and I curse him mentally. He's making me do all the dirty work. –"Can I kiss you?" I ask quickly, hoping he'll catch the words any way. Apparently he did, because for a brief second he looks like I've burned him. What's up with him today?

I mean, this is almost normal, it's not like we're turning gay or anything by kissing, it's just good practice for the future, for the ladies… I tell him this, and he stares at me, a lot paler then usual. It's kind of funny, that I manage to get underneath his skin like this. It's not often Shika is lost for words. –"Come on, I promise I won't bite" I say, my voice sounding more serious then what I wanted it to be. When he backs away a little from me and sits up, I realize exactly how weird this must be for him. –"Ugh, Shika I'm sorry, forget it…" I look away, scratching my neck, trying to think of a way to make all this undone. A few small sounds are heard from Shika, like he has to struggle to get the words out, and I can't help but to look at him. And now what, the kid's blushing. A few strands of his hair have escaped his ponytail, and if I squint my eyes he almost, note the words almost, looks like a cute girl. –"It's okay," he whispers and look up, apparently he collected himself and now he's the calm himself again. Against my will my heart starts to race, my first real kiss. I bite my lip while inching closer, when I'm two centimeters from his face, Shika closes his eyes, and in the late afternoon sun his eyelashes castes unrealistically long shadows across his cheeks. Gently I brush some of his bangs aside, amazed that his skin is so soft. Amazingly Shika doesn't flinch at my touch; I don't even think he's breathing. He might be calm on the outside, but his whole body screams tense and I know I'm scaring him badly right now. He agreed on this because he's my friend, because I wanted it. Not because it was his idea, and not because he likes it. Real friends are the best I conclude as I let my lips graze his; a sudden breath from him makes the both of us jump and the space between us grow. His brown-green eyes flutters open, and for the first time I notice how strange they really are. We stare at each others a few seconds, both letting the feelings sink in; we're still so close that I know he can feel my breath across his cheeks, and I wonder why he doesn't move away. It's too close for best friends, and too far away for lovers. I still want the kiss though, but everything is really screwed up now. I don't really know where we stand, or what to do?

It probably was a really bad idea from the beginning. I don't know what I was thinking about, correction: I did know: my future. I mean what if I met this really kick-ass girl tomorrow or some other day in our new school, and we start dating or whatever, and then I can't kiss her. That must be like the ultimate embarrassment ever. I already got loser painted across my forehead, I don't want it to be more obvious then what it really is. A small movement form Shika, makes me look up. He's inching away a little, still looking at me, but I can't read anything in his face. The hair I tried to tuck away has fallen back again, and out of instinct I reach out and brush it back behind his ears. Shika's eyes widen visible as I do this, but it's too late, I already done the damage, so I decide to continue all the way. Fumbling I reach forward and grab his hand, pressing my lips against his again. He pulls back, but I follow, all senses gone out the window. His breathing is rapid and I wonder why I stay so calm, maybe my brain shut down or something, not being able to cope with the crazy stuff I put it through. Shika's mouth tastes of those mint apple sweets he's always chewing on and what to do now? And then he grabs my shoulder with his free hand and shoves me away. He sits back up, glaring at me, with red tainting his face. –"Don't ever kiss a girl like that…" he hisses and breaks out in one of those rare smiles of his. I'm dumbfounded, what the fuck! Was I that bad? Insecurely I grin back, he isn't mad at me?


	2. The Morning After

**Pop Songs For Us Rejects**

**Notes: **Hi everyone :) It's Morgan, and I've adopted Future's fanfic, Pop Songs for Us Rejects! I do not own chapters one through three, that was her work, and from there on is mine. Please do not accuse me of plagiarism because I will laugh. I have been given permission. Just as well, I quickly beta'd each chapter, because I'm a whore about spelling and grammar mistakes.

I do not own the song Pop Songs for Us Rejects by Silverchair, Panic! At the Disco, or Naruto.

**Chapter 2: The Morning After.**

_Sit tight, I'm gonna need you to keep time  
C'mon, just snap, snap, snap your fingers for me  
Good, good, now we're making some progress  
Come on just tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat…_

(The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage – Panic! At The Disco)

Gaara's POV:

Hey Sasuke, do you tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat? I wonder sitting almost right behind him in the green school bus we're currently riding. I'm on the other side in the lines of seat, so I got a perfect view of him, if I wanted to stare that is. But then again, who wouldn't? He's a wet dream for the web scene to quote a certain band currently blasting from my too big headphones, the kind that makes you look all alien-like. Sasuke isn't the type to tap anything though. I wonder what he listens to, death metal perhaps? But then again, no. He has short hair, no spiked scary bracelets and he doesn't look like he has intentions to kill, or well the back of his head doesn't look like it any way.

I snort a little too loudly at my own thoughts and some brown-haired kid with interesting red streaks down his cheeks stares at me from the other side of the bus. I stare back at him for a moment, noticing the kid besides him, sitting all slouched down with a big dark green beanie covering most of his head, and with tests of darkbrown-ish hair sticking out around his face. Pretty cute, he is.

I smile and wink a little at the first mentioned kid, earning myself a terrified look from him. Way to go Gaara, just scare the newcomers. See, we're all on our way to the newly build Konoha high blaha…blaha, long ass shit name. Who cares, its just school… God I wonder what's up with my attitude today. Someone must have slipped Prozac into my juice this morning or something; usually I'm not this cherry. Well, I'm not exactly like emo-kid over there, Sasuke with other words, but I got my ups and downs too.

So school, I wonder what this year will be like. There's going to be so much people, I mean two high schools becoming one, it can't turn out any other way than in chaos. At least things will get mixed up now, I guess. Points of view will be changed, but somehow I doubt people will change their thoughts about me; I am weird no matter what. But maybe I won't stick out like a sore thumb this year, maybe I'll find other weirdoes to hang out with, maybe, just maybe this year I'll be okay.

I smile tapping my feat to the beat, god this song is catchy. Sasuke's head is bobbing up and down gently too. So he's probably listening to something, if not, then he has become a retard over the summer. I doubt we're listening to the same band though, any less the same song. But what a cool coincidence that would be, a perfect conversation starter, 'cause yeah, it's hard talking to him normally. Those drownable eyes and that dark hair always falling in his face makes me stutter, and blush, makes awkwardness climb into my clothes and take over. I mumble gibberish and run for my life. It's a fact emo-kids, especially Sasuke suck; they're too cute for their own good.

Ah, to hell with him for now, concentrate on the song instead. Who the hell taps their toes to the beat either way? Dumbly I try and wriggle my own toes inside my black skate shoes in tact with the music, it feels odd and I see my reflection in the bus mirror smiling idiotically and the kid I winked at still looks shocked. Man, he must be sensitive; I wave at him and instantly his eyes dart away.

Shikamaru's POV:

I actually like riding the bus, I can zone out without having to excuse myself for not paying attention for once. Because everyone knows that riding the bus everyday to school is the most boring thing ever, they don't expect you to blabber all the way. And I got Kiba beside me, he'll take care of the talking with random kids were kind of-supposed to know-might have had the same classes with-or simply live next door to that stops on their way down in the bus to chitchat. Kiba likes talking, I don't mind talking but I guess I'm one of those that never say anything unless I really feel I have something to say. Anti-social some might say, but I don't care. I glance over at Kiba to pass some time and he's blushing for some weird reason or another.

There's too much red on one person I muse looking Kiba over, his tribal-streaks, my red t-shirt he's wearing and that blush on his cheeks, it makes him look over heated. Poor thing, I almost feel sorry for him. Wonder what makes him heat up like that? It can't be the kiss he's embarrassed about still, true, it freaked me out madly, and it still does, because he is Kiba, my best friend and nothing else. I'm not supposed to be attracted to him at all; I'm not supposed to think about the way my shirt fits on him, that it's a little too tight, and clings a little too nicely to his chest.

Abruptly I bang my head against the dirty window to the make bad thoughts go away. Kiba jumps beside me at the thud my head makes hitting the window and looks at me bewildered. He really must be nervous, Kiba never ever flinches, he's always ready for new challenges, new tries. I admire him for that, therefore I smile weakly at him from underneath my hat, trying to reassure him everything's okay. I'm not acting strange at all; my body does not, and I repeat, does not tingle because he is sitting so close. Damn hormones, I grit my teeth and Kiba grins amused at me, shaking his shaggy haired head, the blush lowered to a faint pink now, barely noticeable on his tanned skin.

Almost everyone calls high school hell, Kiba included there, but I don't know. Sure deal its school and school's never fun. Homework and all that, but is there really a real reason to hate it? I used to say I hated school because of the other kids and their evil words, but I learnt not to care, or maybe I just got thicker skin as years passed by and I got someone to hide behind, Kiba. Seriously, I don't think it's that bad. Maybe because I never get pushed about my grades, I never have anyone pressuring me about doing better, but then again, I don't have any goals either. And somewhere deep down inside of me, I know I can't spend my life like this. Youth doesn't last forever; this right now doesn't last forever. I let my eyes sweep over the sun baked bus, the dust dancing around smiling faces, sulking faces, kids I know, kids I might get to know, the different type of music leaking out from headphones all over the bus, the constant murmur, t-shirts sticking against warm backs, nervousness vibrating all around, the smell of sweat and flowery perfume in the air, anticipation, stress, eagerness, wanting, needing, so much things, so little time. It sounds retarded, but these are our years, our chance to be somebody before turning into adults and god forbid mini version of our parents.

That's one of the biggest things I'm scared of, living in the past like my parents do. They refuse to let go of those days that used to be. I don't mind remembering but I believe in change. I think one has to change to learn new things and sometimes I do think too much. Kiba tells me so, and I know it myself. Too many hours spent in that window, letting thoughts drift by the wind and the music tone out the world. But I know nothing else, and sometimes I wonder if I even want something else.

I like walking along concrete sidewalks, chewing gum, not caring if I'm late for dinner, talking about starting a band with Kiba, the sun getting caught in our eyes and laughter never far away. The times when every day is a new melody and we still don't have to get all the notes right, those days we're soon leaving behind us. Old bonds will be broken, scattered like they never meant anything, college awaits by the horizon, girlfriends, boyfriends, houses, cats and dogs, work, getting paid more, buying a new television, all the little things will be wiped out and replaced by other things. And even if I say I believe in change, I'm scared I'll be the only one clinging on to those little things, like now, riding the bus on a too hot Tuesday morning, or hanging upside down from a tree looking at the world from a different angle.

Sasuke's POV:

It's too fucking hot in here, my sweater itches but I can't take it off. It's oh so obvious I got things to hide, so go on stereotype me. God damn it, I know I'm emo, for fucks sake I know I'm screaming emo. But does it look like I care?

Well, I might do, but I don't, really I don't. I can stand by myself; I don't need anyone, not now, not ever again. I sink lower into the seat and stare right ahead, I wish looks could kill, or at least burn holes. Angrily I kick the orange seat in front of me; not giving a damn if there sits someone or not, I might just enjoy getting beat up right now.

Hopefully I'll bleed and it'll hurt a lot, and there will be scabs to pick on later, wounds to get inflamed, something to be miserable about. But, wow, who is surprised, I manage to kick the only empty seat in the entire bus. Luck must be on my side today, or not.

Suddenly I feel sick, my stomach twists and I regret not eating breakfast. I shouldn't be skipping meals, one of the doctors told me so, they told me shitload of things. Not that I paid attention though, I claim to have a short attention span, they can't blame me for not remembering all those rules. Don't cut, don't think negative, don't blame yourself, don't that, and don't that. What are they, retarded? They don't understand I need this. I need the suffering; I need pain to clear away things, to erase the memories. Therapy my ass, I almost got molested there anyway; I've had enough of hands touching me when I don't want to.

It's a wonder they let me start school again, but obviously they consider me stable enough now, obviously I'm okay again. Ready to face the world, summers been wiped away. Yay, here I come, see me smile! I want to make new friends, come on hug me! I won't flinch away a million miles and suppress tears that threatens to burst, no not at all. I'm perfectly, wonderfully, fantastically, beautifully fucking okay, the doctors says so, and mommy dearest says so. She also tells to go to school and make her proud. Hell yeah, she has something to be proud of, daddy dearest. God I hate him, that disgusting son of a bitch.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, not now. My breath hikes up a few steps and I try to calm down, try to listen to the song playing, closing my eyes, and not thinking about the past. I'll make it through the day, it's only a few hours, and then I'm free. I can wander around for a while and then go home and hopefully nick some sleeping pills from mommy dearest and then I'll be off to dreamland. No need to worry about tomorrow yet, just get through the day. Damn it Sasuke, one day, you can do it. Itachi could do it all those years, be brave now, if not for yourself at least for him.

I can't believe mommy dearest pretends nothing ever happened. How she can continue with the illusion shattered. I hate her too, I fucking hate everything and I curse too much. Daddy dearest didn't like my foul mouth; he said it destroyed the prettiness that is me. If he only knew he destroyed that along time ago, asshole. I'm practically boiling, my insides feeling like they're about to explode. Why me of all people in the whole world, I never wanted to be played with. The only thing that's remotely positive in this shitty excuse for a life is that he is gone now, and probably will be forever. It's only me and mommy dearest left and whatever man she decides to bring home for the night.

I'm so tired, my eyes hurt so much, and it feels like the bus never will arrive to the stupid, dumb, crap school. Someone's in a very bad mood I realize, before stopping my intense glaring at the seat before me. Instead look around the bus, I have to think about something else or I might go crazy. There's a lot of new kids, but that's only good, 'cause then they won't know so much about me, or my past, they won't ask so many stupid questions about Itachi. My look around stops at Gaara, the only one I recognize. He seems to be totally lost in his own little world, practically almost dancing in his seat. He looks carefree and for one second I wish I could sit beside him, looking the same. An almost smile tugs at the corners of my lips when I see the red hearts stitched on the knees of his dark blue jeans. I'd lie if I'd say they aren't cute, I'd lie if I say he isn't cute. But attachment isn't my thing; I've given up on that, given up on love. Oh, didn't that sound poetic?

Maybe I should drag my emo-ass over to him and declare my un-dying love, ending it with slitting my wrists (once move I should add there) and fall down dead, blood trickling it's way down my thin arms, scars visible for everyone to see, my dark extremely long eyelashes (or so I have heard) casting dramatic shadows across my pale, oh so pale cheeks. And Gaara would fall down to his knees, gently holding my fragile frame, weeping over lost love. Tears will fall from his dark lined eyes, smudging the eyeliner, but it won't look trashy, it'll look beautiful and perfect. He'll cry silently, wondering why he never saw me before, why he never noticed. Time will stand still and regret will burn in everyone. I'll be gone, I'll be free.

Oh, god, give me a life! Please, I pray slamming my head against the back of my seat, this is fucking absurd, fantasying about my own death in the stupidest way ever. It seems my sudden movement breaks Gaara's trance and he glances briefly at me. When I met his eyes a small twitchy insecure smile crosses his face and then he dives for his bag beside him. Not fast enough though, I saw the blush. I love Gaara's bag I decide after following his rummaging around in it, trying to catch a glimpse of those big green eyes once again. It's flower printed, hear that flower printed in flashy colors! I want one of those; of course mine would be dyed black to hide the colors, more morbid you know. But still, the flowers. I'd admire any guy that dares to walk around with a flower-printed messenger bag. Le sigh, now I'm obsessed with flower print too. I think I took to many anti-depressives this morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck again, the bus is coming to a halt, and the schools yellow. I hate yellow, fuck it, I hate every damn color in the world. They sting in my eyes, yeah, go on, paint it black. Paint the whole fucking world black.

Kiba's POV:

We're here now, and I'm practically chewing my nails down to their roots. I'm so nervous I might die, and Shika's not helping. He's acting über strange, and when he's not doing that he's staring out the window, almost hiding. It's not like him to be nervous, and I know for sure he's a guy so it can't be PMS, but it must be something. Either that, or Shika has been kidnapped by aliens and this is some kind of crappy replacement. Somehow I doubt that, and I'm not so thick I'd really believe in that kind of story. Really, I'm not!

I think I checked the mirror ten times before I went outside to met Shika and wait for the bus this morning. I've done my best. Kiba the lean, mean, sex machine, I hope the girls will think so too. I couldn't ask Shika what he thought, that'd be too gay. Especially after yesterdays, um, happenings. We didn't kiss again, everything just kind of went back to normal and I got the shirt. Thank god, because I checked, we were out of washing powder.

I haven't seen any cute girls on the bus yet, though. Just the scary redheaded guy beside me. I swear the guy winked at me, and he looks all strange. Hearts on his jeans, girly bag and I think he's wearing eyeliner, well I'm pretty sure he is. But that's, that's like obscene, in most quarters you'd get lynched for that. Sure, I bet there were some kids on my old school that wore eyeliner too, but they were like darkly dressed, gothic. For goodness sake they didn't have light blue t-shirts, they didn't have short-longish hair extremely red hair. With short longish I mean it's really messy, and yeah, it's ugh, for lack of better words short longish. Parts of his bangs keeps on falling in his eyes, while other parts are shorter and all spiky, and I don't know why I even bother with his hair, maybe because it looks all silky?

Ah, shit, he just waved at me again. Hide, Kiba, hide, the freak-show is after you!

Slowly we make our way out of the bus, a million or so kids gathering outside the new school. It looks humongous and I wonder if I'll ever find my way around here. Me, Shika, freak-show and some other kid that looks like he'll break apart any minute stands together. Apparently the headmistress is about to hold some kind of speech or something. There's people everywhere, and hell yeah, a lot, and then I really mean a lot of girls. Apparently I'm staring because Shika tugs my arm, telling me to wipe away the drool. He looks mildly annoyed, and again I wonder what's wrong with him. The depressed kid, and yes, he's clad all I black smirks at me noticing Shika's comment. Choosing to ignore him, he looks pathetic either way; I turn my back against him and stare at the goodness that just climbed the speech holding thing. Wow, she looks good!


	3. Technicolor Dreams

**Pop Songs For Us Rejects**

**Notes: **Hi everyone :) It's Morgan, and I've adopted Future's fanfic, Pop Songs for Us Rejects! I do not own chapters one through three, that was her work, and from there on is mine. Please do not accuse me of plagiarism because I will laugh. I have been given permission. Just as well, I quickly beta'd each chapter, because I'm a whore about spelling and grammar mistakes.

I do not own the song Pop Songs for Us Rejects by Silverchair, Brand New, or Naruto.

**Chapter 3: Technicolor Dreams.**

_What do I do when you get close?  
If I kissed your neck, would you slit my throat?  
Are you thinking of me when you're putting on your makeup,  
darling, and dying your hair like you do?  
Well you're wasting time if you're trying to impress me,  
I waste all my time just thinking of you._

Moshi Moshi – Brand New

Sasuke's point of view:

_Torn in two, it aches inside and every time I bruise something breaks_… I look down at the lines scribbled before me, my first try at the English essay we've been assigned. Somehow I doubt I'll continue this or give it to the teacher, it'll be too close, too much me. Touching things that burn. Like reopening one of those wounds that has just begun to scab and underneath they still bleed, and when you pull of that tiny bit of dried blood it stings even more then what getting the wound originally did.

I might be sick, but I like that pain and I usually do it again, again and again. Repetition is good, it makes the brain focus on something and eventually you'll drift away; it makes me not think too much. The hurt becomes a silent lullaby and the blood smells of safety. Without knowing it I'm scratching my arms through the fabric of my sweater, feeling the raspy surface of a million lies crisscrossing my arms, longing for that revelation they give me. Yet another cutter (we're breeding these days), so typical… an emotional depressed teenager, turning to razorblades because all the words have died and it feels like I'm not worth anything anymore, but still I am to proud to fall to my knees and beg for help. Because that past is suffocating the future, and I just don't want to scream anymore. I've done my share of that, silently perhaps, but it never got me anywhere, it never saved me from those nights…

I stare down at my hands, the right one holding on to the pen too hard, my knuckles going white from the pressure. _(break, break, break) _Why did I become like this, is it only because of you and father dearest or is it because I am sick for real? Was anti-depressant supposed to hold my hands through the pain of walking out the door each morning, was I meant to cry crimson and dream of a tomorrow without angst eating me inside out?

The pen doesn't break, it never does, no matter how much I try, the only thing I gain is a few splinters and the feeling of being a weakling, the heavy guilt of never being enough, because on my shoulders I carry the world. Well at least in my more apathetic and depressed moments I reason like that. Somehow, those moments seems have become everyday life, and now everything's a sad poetic fucked up little fairytale, with me as the black clad emo-prince with painted stars around my eyes and self-made bracelets across my wrists staring the leading role. Messy hair and tired eyes, lyrics scribbled across my face, it's so god damn tragic it could make even the coldest one cry.

Beautiful, I've been called that all my life, father dearest used to whisper it oh so softly, I've never seen it though... I tend to drown in my own eyes while staring at the mirror, captivated by the sadness and all those unborn tears. How can so much water live behind so thin glass orbs? Someday I think my eyes will shatter, tiny glass pieces piercing through that smooth flawless skin father dearest loved so much and everything will go red, red, red… blood everywhere. Finally there will be too much blood, the rivers from my arms will seize to flow and there will be no more need for revelation.

I grit my teeth and slump forward, letting my pen roll of the desk, landing on the tile floor with a barely audible little noise. No one seems to notice so I let it be, knowing already that I won't write more today.

My head aches from the smell of fresh paint and I wish I were somewhere else. It's only the second lesson on our very first day and I'm already on the verge of being hysteric. The paper underneath my arms crumples and the words get smudged, I should save them for another time that I know. My psychiatrist would love to see some of my work as she calls it. I'd never dream about trusting her or any brain doctor again, not since what the last one did. Fucked me over royally, so much for authorities, so much for trust.

I can't be bothered with caring about all those things they claim to be important; grades, school and friends, not anymore. I used to care so much, everyday I listened, I learned and yeah, I lived. It all seems so unimportant now when you're gone. I'd never thought I'd miss you so much, never though… I just never imagined a life without you by my side; I guess you somehow saved me. Without that someone who constantly pressured me to be better, to fight harder, to be like you and to run ahead of you. I wonder if mother dearest misses you too? She always treasured you so badly, you could never do anything wrong in her eyes. But I guess you did this time, you took father dearest away… crash bang boom, the devil's dead! Thank you Itachi, but did you really have to leave me all alone behind? Couldn't we have killed him some other way, couldn't you have talked about me before you went ahead and did it? A short notice, a swift goodbye, you might have not known back then, but I really would have appreciated it. I never hated you, not really… even if I said so a million times, even if I screamed at the tops of my lungs and fought off all those hugs you tried to give me. I don't know why I did, because I needed them so bad. It was us against him, father dearest... and still I refused to trust you, even if I saw he hurt you too. Perfection was never enough in his eyes, you tried so god damn hard and it broke you over and over again, and I was the only one there to witness it. Those shaky moments when tears blurred your vision and that strong back crumbled and you curled in the corner, face hidden in your hands, sobs echoing through our bare rooms and worst of all your shoulders shaking like a child's. I always saw you as so much older then me, but in reality you weren't. Only a few years, but for me an eternity and an ocean of seconds and I never really wanted to swim. You kept on looking back, kept on checking that I could keep up with your pace, you held my hand when I stumbled and fell, and you carried me those times I was to weak to run. But all those times I looked away, I lowered my head in shame because I didn't want you, I didn't need you, and I never ever said 'thank you'. Once I tried to whisper it silently after you when you walked out my room, but I doubt you heard it, 'cause I choked halfway and spit the rest out. I never let you know what I really felt, and regret burns, oh yes it burns…

Pride is something deadly you know that? And I treasured it so dearly, clung to every piece as father dearest ripped it away bit by bit. Pride is what kept me from you, but there's no more pride now. I gave it up for you, too late perhaps… but still, a try.

A weak smile and I sit back up, catching a glimpse of a familiar redhead, concentration adorning his pale features, scribbling furiously on the piece of paper before him. He has already written a page or so, and I know I'm going to regret not writing in class when I get home seeing I just planned on drugging myself out on sleeping pills and not a few hours of homework. I think he notices me looking and he glances up on me, pencil stopping in mid sentence, the same shaky-shy smile from before grazing his lips. Our eyes meet and he looks away instantly like I burned him, a bit like regret does to me. I on the other hand don't look away, I have no reason to.

So much color on such a little kid, practically screaming see me, but somehow I still get the feeling he's hiding. I can't see his eyes anymore, those firey locks hide them. He's a few seats away, if he sat closer like right beside me, I'm not sure I could have resisted the urge to reach out and brush those few strands of hair away. Why does he make me feel like this?

Mentally I slap myself, what was that I said about not letting anyone near? Romance is dead, touchy-feely moments isn't for me. I'm trying so hard not to feel anything, fighting war on all fronts, kicking jealousy in it's ribs, stepping on love, stabbing bravery in the guts, suffocating hatred, kissing regret, sleeping with pain and simply killing my insides over and over again. I long for a gray nothing, an endless numbness, like those first soft drags of razorblades against skin. Nothing beats that, nothing… except, yeah maybe, and I continue looking at Gaara. Too intensely, with too much emotion, those supposed to be dead feelings. What if, we two… could that be?

I can't take it anymore, my thoughts are wrecking havoc and I can't escape them. Abruptly I stand up and gather my things and rush out of the classroom heading for the boy's bathroom or some other half safe place in idiot school. With tears pressing on in the corners of my eyes I am ashamed, and I worry that people will see. Hugging my books close to my chest I walk as fast as I can, green floor getting blurry underneath my feet, cheeks burning red. Damn it Sasuke! You stupid moron, this wasn't what you planned; this wasn't the way it should have worked out! I didn't even hear the teacher call my name out when I left, so he probably knows, and now he's telling all my classmates about how 'Sasuke is going through and emotional crisis right now, he lost his brother and his father just this summer, he needs time to adjust again, so kids, be nice to him'… and then I'll get those looks of pity from people I barely know and…

_Crash_, I run into someone and we both fall. Slightly tangled in each other and my books are everywhere. For one second time stands still, we're both out of breath and we still haven't really caught up on what happened. I sit up a little and met his eyes and they're totally freaky, I almost flinch back, all pearly gray and unreadable. He smirks a little at my reaction (like if he's used to it) and pulls himself up, offering me a hand at the same time. Thankfully I grab it and hoist myself up, realizing that I'm not really keeping my stone cold façade up. I use my sleeve to wipe my eyes, probably too late, if there were any tears he would already have seen them.

-"Neji" he says, and shakes my hand a little, instantly I blush at the realization that I hadn't let go. –"Sasuke" I mumble and look him sternly in the eye, what the fuck is up with blushing, crying and running away anyway? Time to stop all that now. –"I know," he answers almost smiling and then he turns around and walks away. Amazed I stare at the long thick pony tail of brown-blackish hair dancing on his retreating back in the otherwise empty corridor, who the hell does he thinks he is?


	4. Detention!

**Pop Songs for Us Rejects**

Hey everyone! This is LetMeCry, working on yet another new project! Unfortunately. TheFutureFreaksMeOut has decided she's not going to write any more for Pop Songs, and this is a favorite fanfic of mine, so when she mentioned it was adoptable, I really couldn't help myself. The first three chapters are HER WRITING. NOT MINE. NEVA MINE. But she has allowed me to have them. Chapter four and onwards is my work though, so…enjoy?

I'll try to update my other fics, but they've been suffering a little thing called writers block. I'm sorry. :(

I hope the characters were okay…I don't like the way I did Sasuke, but it was worth a shot I suppose. Future can critique me. :)

**Chapter Four: Detention!**

_Just let me ask you,  
"Hey, have you heard of my religion?"   
It's called the church of hot addiction,  
and we believe that God is lust for everything.  
Because now... the time has come for your devotion_

(The Church of Hot Addiction – Cobra Starship)

Gaara's POV:

Lunch is ridiculously stereotypical. I'm standing in one of the lunch lines, rocking where I stand and quickly scanning over the cafeteria for an empty table, or one of those tables made for people who have no friends so it only seats one or two. There's an apple flying from palm to palm, forty cents in my jean pocket ready to pay for my meal, however abbreviated it may be. The tables are already stereotyped, as though someone had already prewritten where everyone is supposed to sit, even in a new school. Where the preps and the jocks and the nerds sat was already designated. God knows how. There aren't even any traditions yet; No stoner bathrooms or Freshman Fridays or Senior Skip days, none of that obligatory bullshit that is too common in the ordinary high school these days. Do people who are exactly alike just gravitate? Is that how they can know where to sit, who to sit with, and how to do it on the first day of a brand new building?

Or do I envy them? Maybe I need some friends. Kankurou told me I did, he's pretty lucky, he's managed to make friends, and he avoided coming to this school thanks to summer school. Graduated just in time to leave me alone, just like Temari. I sound so emo, I realize, nearly missing the toss of the fruit that could have sent shards of apple all over the new floor. I hate it when I sound like that, because I'm not that way. I'm not the person who looks as though he's going to fall apart every second of the day, not the one with a million scars or the one you find at three am, pills clogging their throat and a hazy expression in their eyes. That's **not** me. I am the one who makes good grades and spends his life as a surprisingly content outcast. I wonder, vaguely, if this is weird.

I pay for my apple and adjust the strap of my bag, which had curled awkwardly onto my shoulder, cutting with the weight of my new textbooks and hardly guarded by my bright blue tee shirt. I don't even bother looking for a seat, I know where to go after all, because every school has The Place where the ones socially discarded can linger, maybe even talk together, as they put unhealthy food into their easy to please systems. In this case, it's a patio outside the school, barely constituting the term 'on-campus' and nearly barren compared to the large cafeteria. The patio I surrounded by four-foot walls and a few trees, guaranteeing for an unsuspecting skulls to be crushed in a fall they hadn't seen coming.

My teeth puncture the dark red skin of the apple, flavor bursting from the fruit and into my mouth, a little saliva lingering in a corner of my lips before I suck it away. The air outside is hot and humid, an awkward, itchy contrast to the air-conditioned school. Glancing around, I could see this was the haven for the socially rejected, and 'The Cool Outcasts', whoever they were, sat on the wall, balancing on the foot's width of brick as they shoved French-fries into their bodies and laughed about god knows what. A twitch of a smile curves on my face as my gaze flicks to a figure sitting at a picnic table in the corner. Sasuke was hunched over his homework, the expression on his face one of discomfort and discontent more than anything else. Taking another bite of my apple, I take a table for myself, assuming no one will sit with me, which is a fairly safe assumption if last year meant anything. The ones who sat with me were the ones fighting with their current friends and desperate for a seat, or the ones who had no friends and hadn't discovered going to the library was the best idea. One of the popular rejects stares at me for a second, and I blink, flashing a cautious smile. He rolls his eyes and looks away. Lunch is too goddamn stereotypical.

My attentions return to Sasuke, and I'm sitting with a good, comfortable distance, putting on my expensive headphones and letting music drown out the buzz around me. Music was great like that. When I listen to my headphones, I can lose focus in everything around me, just close my eyes and drift away from what could be considered conceivable thought. Screw thinking, I want to relax, and this is the way I do it. I hope my lunch period is nice and long. My eyes don't close, they fix on Sasuke, rather solidly, and I decide that he's too pretty. My gaze flicks from him, to a storm drain, to the CD player in my lap insecurely. He's sitting there, holding a ballpoint pen and staring at his paper with that look on his face someone gets when in deep though. His lips would twitch or quiver ever so often, but he never blinked, and it was almost eerie. No food, no drinks, he wasn't even wearing his headphones. Nothing there to tourniquet him.

I turn up the volume of my CD player to the max level and close my eyes. The insides of my eyelids look kind of red, being outside and all, and I wonder, if only for a moment, why I didn't get blood on my eyes when I blink. Oh god. That's even stupider than the 'Why is the sky blue?' question. I rock in my seat to the music, bliss little grin on my face before stopping abruptly as how idiotic I must look hit me. People were probably watching. I wonder if Sasuke's watching, and then squirm a little at the thought. A blush bled onto my cheeks at the thought, and my eyes snap open as something hits me square in the forehead, right over the tattoo that glorified the part in my hair. A paper ball bounces into my lap. The popular outcasts are howling with laughter. Sasuke isn't looking.

Shikamaru's POV:

I run a few fingers through my ponytail as I eat into my slice of pizza, watching Kiba talk about all of the hot girls animatedly, speech almost incoherent over the roar of the cafeteria. I myself don't have anything interesting to say, as I slept through my first and second period and hadn't quite recovered from the drag, but Kiba is moving at a mile a minute. 'She's cute, she's not, she likes him, but she would never…' Something like that, too fast for me to keep up with and too trivial a subject for me to care about. Occasionally I would hear a name I recognized, making a face of approval or disapproval so it looked as though I wasn't completely out of it, but I hadn't been the busy one this morning. To my relief, it seemed two periods of class had blown off any tension between them and dissipated Kiba's nervousness. It had been _awkward _to see him in such a state this morning. (Cute had been the first thought, but one syllable was easy to ignore and forget.)

Lunch ended as quickly as it had begun, and soon enough a cafeteria full of students were tossing away crinkling wrappers, half-eaten lunches, and the little cartons of milk with the missing person's ad on the cover. Smart students had filed out early, but we didn't, waiting until the last thirty seconds before the bell to pull out of schedules. "What's your next class?" he asked, scratching his face at the base of a tribal mark and a secure grin on his face. "Algebra." I answer, boredly, promise of yet another textbook making my already stuffed backpack moan.

Kiba and I are close, and friends, and nothing else…_really. _But last year Kiba asked me to fail the Math standardized with him, meaning we would flunk Freshman Algebra. I would have passed the class if I took the test, and Kiba would have failed it, so I shrugged and slept through it. This year Kiba wanted me to help him more, which I'd do if he bothered to ask for it, but he never really does. He's not the type to ask for help. My face flushed immediately. I ought to stop doing him favors. "Remember? We failed."

"Score!" Kiba exclaimed, kind of loudly, though his tendencies to be louder than most didn't bother me. "I have it too next period, at least we have one class together!"

"Good, let's go, we're gonna be late." I squashed the pizza into my mouth, washing it down with the milk that had the strange, not-right taste all school milk had, and tossed my trash into the garbage can on my way out. We filed through students just as lost as ourselves as we pulled out our maps. After a few seconds, I traced the classroom and the fastest way there, and just as I opened my mouth the low, chiming bell erupted through the school. Kiba glanced at me. I glanced at him. "Run or walk?" he asked, checking his watch and pocketing his own map. "First day. Run."

And that was that. We must have looked so idiotic, two boys suddenly taking off down the halls, backpacks swinging wildly as we rounded corners and evaded trashcans, myself leading though Kiba was faster, the most exasperated expressions on our faces. Our feet pounded against the freshly waxed floor, filling the hallways with our presence as loudly as our weight could support. Heads poked out of doors, and I think there was a teacher behind me yelling 'DEMERIT! DEMERIT!' though we just kept running. Kiba was smiling, and I think I was smiling too, armed with too-heavy textbooks and deranged expressions on our stupid teenage faces. It was like a high. And if I was high, the look on our math-teacher's face when we walked in immediately sobered me.

"Detention!"

Sasuke's POV:

I watch a couple of kids stumble in with flushed faces, panting and sweating a story I would never be told that might've been able to keep me interested for a few minutes. My teacher is yelling at them, screaming her simplified-obscenities and watching them recoil with satisfaction. Detention's apparently the solution for everything. Late to class? Detention. Wandering the halls? Detention. Slitting your wrists in the school bathrooms with a razorblade you've had in your wallet to channel those moments when nothing matters anymore and there's only one pretty little answer for all of your problems. (DETENTION!)

My hands are shaking. I should have eaten something at lunch, I can feel my stomach screaming in protest as I deprive it further, and frankly, I don't give a shit. Maybe I can be a little token anorexic too. Then there'll be one more thing wrong with me, one more thing mommy-dearest has to cry about because her baby's too fucking sick for her to handle. Her baby's already taking oh so many of those pills, those little pills that are supposed to make him happy again. LOOK AT ME EVERYONE! I'm on Prozac and now I'm happy again! My world has now flaws and everything is wonderful and there will never, ever be any fucking problems.

Daddy-dearest would be so depressed to find out I have to take Algebra again. I was always so good with numbers, oh so good with my xs and ys, but oh no, not anymore, not when I suddenly had my little breaking point and everything stationary became as fickle as water. Not like blood. Blood is thick, dark, beautiful, little slits across my skin and then it's everywhere, starting in fat little bubbles that will eventually pop and the rush begins. Blood on the floor, in the carpet, in my eyes, everywhere, and IT'S EVERYWHERE! Hear that daddy-dearest? I'm screaming out to you. Can you hear me? You used to love hearing me scream. You used to glut on it as you ran your hands all over me and took my childhood away.

There's a sudden snap as the teacher whips her ruler across the blackboard, and my gaze is hazy as I snap out of my daze. I need to cut. I need to fucking get out of here, knock back pills, cut away everything that's wrong until I can go to sleep and then have to do it all over again. She's saying something, I can see her lips moving, and faintly I can hear the buzz of her words, but I'm too tired to think. I rest my head on the desk and close my eyes, scratching at my arms from under the plate of wood that supported me and my textbook. My eyes feel heavy, my headache hasn't lessened, and I feel ironically sane for a second or two. I dig my nails into a scabbed-over cut from under my sleeve, peeling it away oh so slowly and wincing as a sharp sting shot through my arm. I almost laugh at how good it felt. I feel a little blood on my fingernail, and I suck on it, the familiar metallic taste relaxing, before continuing to inflame the open wound.

If I was crying, I couldn't feel it.

I want to go home.


	5. So Very General

**Pop Songs for Us Rejects**

Sorry, once again, for the delay, I know it took me a blindingly long time to update this, but I took my sweet sugar time in developing a new character for this one, and I wanted him to be just the way I see him in my head. I have no idea how long this fic will turn out to be, but I doubt it will be super-super long, and it's sort of my replacement for Our Own Little Musings, which I deleted due to lack of inspiration and the fact that it killed me with OOCness. I'm sorry.

**Chapter Five: So Very General**

_Hours pass, and she still counts the minutes  
That I am not there, I swear I didn't mean for it to feel like this  
Like every inch of me is bruised, bruised  
And don't fly fast. Oh, pilot can you help me?  
Can you make this last? This plane is all I got so keep it steady, now  
Cause every inch you see is bruised_

(Jack's Mannequin – Bruised)

Sasori's Point of View:

Life is carved in stone. (Clay, perhaps. In either fashion it is carved. But then again, is clay to be carved? Or shaped? Does it matter?) It stares at the faces of the weak with a certain amount of burning apathy. Almost depressing. But that's contradictory. Apathy doesn't depress. It only allows for the devil to take the mind of the fool into his hands. Such as it is, life remains carved in that same solid stone, and yet I remain unsure of exactly what it tries to tell me. This could make me ignorant, or not- I have never thought of myself as such. (_Ignorance_ is such a petty term, really.)

It's so very general.

My fingernails click against the hardwood of a desk that feels too new, and I can feel the stares. The stares. (I glut in them, little attention whore, little _whore_-) I knew they would stare. I'm torn in wonder as to if people are naturally fascinated with others, or if they just don't like the way I look, and either seems completely probable. Grandmother tells me I shouldn't dress the way I do. (But no one listens to her. No one cares. No one cares. **No one knows**.) I press my lips together as I stare at my Calculus work, the corkscrew between them slightly smudged by the purple gloss. The ring moves under my skin, and I feel a sharp sting stab at my lower jaw. It's infected. Annoying.

The school's been open for a few weeks, almost a month, but time drags like the cigarillos I smoke, (-slowly. Deep. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.) I don't know anyone, nor do I care to. (Mommy taught me everything I needed to know for such a long time…) No one interests me enough. (-I, myself am all I need. Myself and those pretty little-) I stare at the work. Complex equations that make too much sense to be real. The lead of my pencil scratches quietly against the paper as I write, and a bit of graphite dust brushes over one of my answers. The heat of the classroom makes my skin bead sweat and the thin fishnet that covers my shoulders begins to itch. I pull one of the black strings of a bow in my hair into my mouth and chew on it. My stomach hurts.

The triple tone bell rings out and people stand, swinging book bags over their shoulders and talking about the Faggot who sits in my seat. I slide out of my chair and brush myself off, the pink material of my dress snagging to a hook in the seat. I disattach it and take my things, adjusting balance in my (- "I'm sorry Mrs. Akasuna, I can't really see why his growth is…") boots and taking an armful of books to my chest. (Black corset. _Tight._)

No one interests me just enough…

I have a Lunch Period. The half hour of the day where I can sit in a room with five-hundred other students and do exactly as I wish. I never go. I hate the noise. The food disgusts me. I hate the people. The heat of too many bodies in too small a space. I hate it. The dress sways as I walk, and people stare at me in hallways, and it could be considered Masochistic that I enjoy the crude attention. (-Better than home. Better than there.)

I walk to the art wing. The area doesn't smell as strongly of used material as it was supposed to. It smelled new. New paint, new clay, new sinks, new kilns, new everything, and it was sick. For lack of the better term, art rooms aren't supposed to smell that way, but this one does. I don't like it. There's no one in the room when I enter, and I sit down in one of the chairs, scratching at the table with one of the glossed purple nails I am too often made fun of for. (-Idiotic people. My chest **_aches_**.) I sit there for a few moments, and my name is carved into dust, the letters written not in actual script, but a code of lines and inches I can't well define.

This is my art. The one so few have the capacity to really understand. To know that people are raised so devoid of taste and beauty is depressing. To know this, I _would_ want to help them, but I don't, really. I provide, they ignore. That is how it has always been and I most believe it is. That is the way the world exists as it is today, and I am discontent, though there is nothing for me to do about it. People rarely appreciate the beauty of the body. (But they will, oh, they _will_-)

I listen to the door creak open behind me, and I can feel the dust that has gathered on the floor raise again as it's disrupted. The hard wood scrapes quietly, and I can hear the breath in a pair of unhealthy lungs steadily being filled with Tar from cheap cigarettes catch in surprise as eyes are glued to my back. The click of feet against floor breaks the would-be silence, and I wait for words, confirmation, anger, acceptance, (-**_anything _**so I can feel the body's human in the air. The innocence steadily being corrupted of a High School kid. _Does everyone else think like I do?_)

I turn around in my seat, the pink material of my skirt gathered at my bottom twisting awkwardly against my inner thighs.

He's there.

Kiba's Point of View:

The smell of chipping paint is somewhat reassuring, because it smells like some version of home and it's only there if the home has been there for a long time, long enough for the paint to start flicking away in strips so the layers of insulation and wood can reach the surface. I pull at the strips, and a few loose pieces caking under my fingernails as I do, and Shikamaru is telling me to cut it out as he glances at me from his windowsill.

We should be in class today. But this morning Shikamaru woke up with over a hundred fever and I'd rather be here, pretending to take care of the guy, than at school, pretending to do my Algebra problems. Since we started, I've already gotten In-School-Suspension, which is where they lock you in a white room all day and give you your work, three times, I've had four detentions, and I'm supposed to be getting a Saturday-School referral for skipping class too much soon enough, but I doubt our teacher will follow through. A lot of these teachers are brand new, so they aren't very harsh, but most of them came from schools before they all got merged into this one, so they're a bunch of rock hard bastards that I don't like.

Shikamaru called me sometime this morning, and as I walked to his house, the burn of the last of September on my back made me sweat rivers into my black hoodie. By the time I got to Shika's house, I was a bit embarrassed, because I've always been a heavy sweater and no one really knows why. I helped Shikamaru's mom make some soup, but Shika didn't really want to, so I had about half and left the rest beside his bed. Shikamaru's house is so serene compared to every other place in the world. As I lay on his bed, watching the fevered flush in his cheeks stretch steadily to his ears (-He's pretty like a girl when he does that, and I would have slapped myself for thinking that, but such thoughts have been so reoccurring, I give it to hormones and nothing else. I am **not** attracted to him. He just looks like a girl.) He's been watching the sky for a few hours, and I've been listening to his boom box quietly pelt tones that reverberate around the room like air. Music might as well be air; I wouldn't survive for long without it.

The first month of school hasn't been as good as I'd planned it to be. It hasn't been hell, because there are lots of cute girls who'll talk to me, like this blonde chick in my first period who's pretty popular, or this really shy girl in my art class who barely ever talks but she's really good at drawing and is my seat partner. I don't really like shy people that much, I like it better if they're comfortable telling people how they feel. Not in a brutally honest way, but just in a…relaxed way. Kind of like Shika. (-Him _again._) But the shy girl in my art class is pretty okay. Even though she stutters and blushes all the time, which is kind of weird, she's okay.

I feel myself squishing into Shikamaru's comforter, and I watch the cracks in the ceiling, the unmoving cracks that seem to really move if you don't keep your eyes focused. But every sixty seconds I lose that focus and I could swear I see something move. (-But it never does. I hope I don't need glasses. One more embarrassing thing.) I smell some sort of drug, but I can't tell where it's from, or even what it is. It could be grass, in fact, if _anything, _it would be grass, but Shikamaru had told me that his parents had stopped, and I believe him. Stupid shit.

I don't really know how Shikamaru's doing in school, because we don't have many classes together, but my guess it that's he's doing great, or at least okay, depending on how much he's been sleeping this year. I'm surprised at how I don't find myself jealous of it. I used to, during Middle School, and it made me feel guilty that I did, but I was jealous of the fact that he had such great grades and almost irritated because he didn't really take advantage of his smarts. I just sort of stopped caring this year. I think it's because I realize Shikamaru doesn't really care either. It just sort of justified it, in a way that doesn't really make sense to me or anyone else. I won't be asking him how he's doing either, because Shikamaru and I have a silent agreement not to talk about classes unless we need help. It's kind of cool. We don't have to listen to each other bitch about teachers or homework or anything. It's acting like we're still on Summer Vacation when we aren't.

I noticed some bruises on his arms, and they aren't that bad, they're brown and fading, and I wonder if he's been getting in fights. I don't really picture Shikamaru in a fight. I can't see him angry enough to punch anybody and I can't see him pissing anyone off enough to get punched. But then again. People are weird. People get provoked by the stupidest shit. I really wouldn't surprise me if some guy punched Shikamaru for a bullshit reason, like… if Shika was walking on "their" side of the street. Stuff like that happens all the time in high school. (-Though not so much at ours, because turf is still being established.)

I'll ask him sometime.

Not now though.

He looks too tired to talk.

(-And the blush extends a little further.)


End file.
